Voldemort's Flying Circus
by Benign Overlord
Summary: Following his revelation in "A Day in the Life", Voldemort starts his own theatre troupe. Unfortunately, the Universe doesn't seem to approve of this idea.
1. Part I: Chapter 1

**Voldemort's Flying Circus**

_Part I: The Improbable World_

Chapter 1

The Wizarding World was in an uproar after news of the Dark Lord's resignation. How could the Heir of Slytherin give up on his ambition of conquering Britain? Nevertheless, the evidence was irrefutable—the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters had left Britain to attend the Babel School of Performing Arts. It was unbelievable. It was mortifying.

It was calamity.

The sound of incessant bickering could be heard from the dining room of 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Albus, this is definitely a ruse! You can't expect us to believe that Voldemort is giving up all his power to start up a theatre troupe! It's impossible!" Alastor Moody exclaimed, his magical eye rotating wildly, giving the impression that it was about to fly out of its socket.

"Exactly!" A drunken Mundungus Fletcher added, before collapsing into a heap on the floor.

"The Dark Lord has never shown any interest in performing, has he?" Minerva McGonagall questioned, wrinkling her nose at the spectacle that Mundungus Fletcher had made of himself.

Sirius Black scoffed, "Of course not! Try imagining Voldemort prancing around in bloody tights!"

The image of a bald, red-eyed Dark Lord twirling around a stage in pink tights elicited the gag reflexes of everyone in the room.

"As our only spy within the Dark Lord's ranks, I find it… prudent to inform you that the Dark Lord has indeed decided to give up on being a Dark Lord. He believes that his true purpose in life is to take everything that he has experienced and, as he so eloquently phrased it, 'put it into a show'. He has ordered all the Death Eaters to accompany him to that wretched performing arts school, after which we will be expected to perform in his troupe," Severus Snape sneered in disgust.

Sounds of disbelief were heard throughout the room. The bickering returned to its full volume, and soon numerous hexes were being cast across the table, resulting in a scowling Severus Snape sporting a shiny mop of long, wavy, Griffindor-red hair and Sirius Black being dressed in female Victorian garb, causing him to promptly faint due to his inability to breathe in such a tight-fitting ensemble. Fred and George Weasley proceeded to charm particles of dust to clump together and whiz around the room at random, shouting "BAZINGA" every time they hit an Order member.

"SILENCE!"

It was difficult to take Albus Dumbledore seriously when he was dressed in a ridiculously florescent robe with purple bunnies hopping in and out of their rabbit holes. However the Order, which was ironically in disarray, immediately ceased their bickering when the Supreme Mugwump rose to his feet to address them.

"Unfortunately, my friends, what Severus says is true. It is the reason why we have convened today—to decide on the fate of the Order. What will our primary objective be now that Voldemort has stepped down?"

After another round of bickering, the Order finally came to an agreement. To preserve the sanity of the people of Wizarding Britain, the Order of the Phoenix would prevent the Dark Lord and his troupe from performing when they returned to Britain. They knew that the consequences of failing would be catastrophic.

Little did they know that they had not even begun to fathom the implications of this new development.


	2. Part I: Chapter 2

**Voldemort's Flying Circus**

_Part I: The Improbable World_

Chapter 2

"You're not joking, are you, my Lord?" A Death Eater enquired meekly.

"Of course not, have I ever seemed the type to humour my minions? Perhaps I should put on a jester costume and prance about, attempting to tickle the soles of your feet with a thirty-foot feather. Or better yet, grow a head of long, wavy hair, don a white robe and sandals and wander around Diagon Alley, speaking in parables and claiming to be Jesus Christ."

Of course, none of the Death Eaters, who were actually authentic (and therefore ignorant) purebloods, seemed to be familiar with this "Geesus Cryst" person, and Voldemort's first attempt at sarcasm in the presence of his followers fell flat.

"W…Well… I THINK NOT! I have never made a saner decision in my life! I will start a theatre troop, and every one of you here will be witnesses to... The New Reich!"

Again, none of his followers had received a basic muggle education and therefore had no idea what a 'Reich' was. Rather than risk incurring their Lord's wrath, they chose, instead, to stare at him stupidly while mentally assuring themselves that their Lord was going mad and speaking in nonsensical terms that no one could understand. They were all well-bred purebloods, surely the problem could not lie with their lack of general knowledge.

"In addition, do not forget to be packed by tomorrow. I assure you that there will be dire consequences if you fail to do so. And henceforth, honourifics such as 'my Lord' and 'the Dark Lord' will not be condoned."

The Death Eaters stared at their Un-Lord in shock. This they could understand, but it was preposterous! Almost all of them had been at the receiving end of Voldemort's wand for not addressing him with the respect he deserved, and now they were being told not to do so? It was an outrage! A scandal! They had not signed up for this nonsense. They had signed up to kill, to maim, to torture, to-

"Also, killing and torturing will not be allowed, it's bad publicity."

There was complete silence, and just as the Death Eaters were about to open their mouths to complain and stage a rebellion, the universe sneezed, and the world descended into darkness.


	3. Part I: Chapter 3

**Voldemort's Flying Circus**

_Part I: The Improbable World_

Chapter 3

The universe slept but did not sleep, lived but did not live, was everything but was nothing. At times when things got dull, which was rather often, the universe would start inventing, and using the fabric of space as a whiteboard, it would plan. Sometimes its plans were sweet and heartwarming. Other times they were utterly mind-boggling. More often than not they were terribly nefarious. And for that one moment of excitement, the universe would revel in the utter confusion, happiness and despair caused by its plans, and boredom was temporarily assuaged. But as always, after what seemed like milliseconds later, the game would end. Anger and despair would rise up and overcome the carefully crafted moment of sheer bliss. Good, in its tireless struggle against evil, would eventually get lucky and triumph. Through the confusion, people argue themselves to a standstill, never moving forward, never moving back. And just like that, the fun would be over. Such is the cyclic nature of life- Society is established. Society collapses, burned into nothingness. Society is born again from the ashes.

Wavering between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, the universe wrapped itself in its thoughts. It amused itself briefly with a paradox that many humans seemed oblivious to.

_Can ominscient God who,_

_Knows the future find,_

_The ominpotence to_

_Change his future mind?_

_That was a good one_, it mused. It decided to implant the masterfully created poem in the subconscious of a certain Karen Ownens in one of the worlds. That world, in particular, needed all the logic it could get.

Then, it felt it. The proverbial "crick in its neck". The throb of pain engulfed its consciousness for a brief nanosecond, and was promptly swatted away like a fly. _Strange_, it thought, _that took longer to suppress than usual_. When it was finally in charge of its mental faculties again, it rummaged the worlds for the cause. It didn't take long for the image of Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr., or as he was known to that world, Lord Voldemort, to appear.

_Put it into a show… Given up… n__ew theatre troupe… prancing Voldie… bloody tights… BAZINGA._

_The New Reich… honourifics… will not be condoned. _

That was definitely an anomaly. Tom Riddle's existence in that world was defined by his status as a Dark Lord. Suppressing the sense of dread that had started to bubble up from within, the universe continued its search, hoping that the situation was still salvageable.

And then- _"Also, killing and torturing will not be allowed, it's bad publicity."_

The Universe sneezed.

_Oh dear._

**A/N: **Credit for the wonderful paradox verse used above rightfully goes to Karen Ownens, not the Universe— just in case you were wondering.


	4. Interlude 1

**Voldemort's Flying Circus**

Interlude

Our lives are defined by our choices. Every single time a choice is made, even as simple a choice as whether one should floss their teeth with lemon-flavoured floss or mint-flavoured ones one fine morning, an alternate reality is created. For example, had that person chosen lemon-flavoured floss, he would not have been torn apart by a savage Peruvian Golgothan the next day, whose only fear is, conveniently, lemons. Unfortunately for that man, he didn't, thus resulting in his brutal demise. However, due to the mere possibility of his choosing to use the lemon-flavoured floss, an alternate reality is created, one where the Peruvian Golgothan smelt the man's lemony breath and ran away after squealing like a pig. The man would eventually go on with his life, thanking whichever deity he worshipped—which, in this reality, happened to be the great juju up the mountain— for his amazing good luck, only to be strangled to death forty-two years later by the very same lemon-flavoured tooth floss.

However, there comes a time when something so highly improbable happens, one which the universe had never considered, that the universe sneezes. Literally. Another alternate reality is then forcefully created based on this highly improbable choice. And when said highly improbable choice causes another highly improbable reality to be highly improbably created, it sets off a chain of highly improbable events in said highly improbable reality.

Trust me, you do not want to live there.

Of course, the offending reality which created this highly improbable event is deleted from existence to prevent any future offences. After all, it is hard work to manage all the alternate realities— black holes are formed on the face of the galaxy, a sign that the universe has suffered yet another mental breakdown. The person who holds the record for number of mental breakdowns inflicted on the universe is Harry James Potter, mostly due to all the highly improbable deaths he suffered. One notable death includes being decapitated at the end of his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for sticking his head out of the moving Hogwart's Express while waving goodbye to his friend Rubeus Hagrid, only to have his head separated from his neck when the train entered into a tunnel. The universe, who had never thought that anyone could have been so daft, suffered a mental breakdown, causing a black hole to be formed in the star system Sol. The planet Pluto was reduced to half its size in this tragedy. Decades later, an astrophysicist by the name of Dr. Neil deGrasse Tyson finally realised this indiscretion and Pluto's planetary status was revoked. Centuries after, the dwarf planet Pluto committed suicide by hoisting itself into that very same black hole. Yes, Harry Potter remains to be the bane of not only Tom Riddle Jr.'s existence, but also the bane of the universe.

Excerpt from _Workings of the Universe_, by Douglas R. Hawking


	5. Part II: Chapter 4

Voldemort's Flying Circus

_Part II: The Closet of Dreams_

Chapter 4

Behold, the Wizarding World.

"World" is hardly the word to describe it, of course, it hardly takes up any space at all. Yet they blow their worth up to insane proportions, purging minds to keep their unimportant existence a secret from those they derisively call "muggles". They place themselves so high up on the list that it hardly matters when a few muggles are damaged irreparably in the process. Even those so-called "muggle-lovers" and "blood traitors" treat them as nothing more than amusing, unintelligent pets with a funny, alien lifestyle. It's no surprise that they refer to themselves as the "world". After all, they lord over it, assuming that anyone on it is theirs to toy with.

Too long has passed where a quick _accio_ gives the people whatever they desire, never mind where it came from. All wants and needs met with a flick of a wand. They have it all, what does it matter if they don't really understand how it came to be?

As a result society stagnates, never moving forward, never moving back. The people go through the motions with a fixed set of guidelines. Every step of their life, dictated. Dreams and ideas fade from existence. But this world, if I may call it that, is starting to change. The people are stirring. Rising.

They awake.

Explosions of colour fill the stage, nonsensical music blasts their minds apart and the people watch open-mouthed as Voldemort's Flying Circus concludes yet another spectacular performance. They clap their hands and yell in appreciation with careless abandonment, and when the curtain finally falls, they buzz excitedly to each other.

"Oh, how fantastic that was!"

"How amazing!"

"Beautiful!"

"Joyous!"

Even the hard-nosed critics sputter in amazement at the sheer beauty of it all. They clap and laugh and sing with the people, grinning widely despite their aching cheeks.

"The meaning of it all! The audacity, the emotions! Spectacular!" One critic exclaims, as the people gather around him to hear what wisdom he cares to impart. The people cheer in agreement, and his words spread through the crowd like wildfire.

Someone asks the critic what he meant. Exactly how was it meaningful, audacious? The critic tilts his chin up and scoffs at him, telling him that it was obvious, even blatant in its attempts to convey deep meaning. "If you did not see it you are obviously thick. Or I might just be much more intelligent than the average person. Or both, which is actually highly likely." The critic swaggers off to find more people to impress with his flowery words. The man notices that the critic had refused to meet his eyes. He turns around, and for a fraction of a second, emerald eyes spark with anger and confusion. He wants to bash their heads in, shake them till their heads snap off their lifeless bodies, cast an _avada kedavra _into the air, anything to make them _notice_. But it's useless. It has been for a while now, ever since Voldemort took over the British Theatre Troupe and gave it a new, flashy name, together with bright, flashing colours and catchy beats that refuse to go away, the sound of drums beating relentlessly in the minds of the people, calling them back again and again, performance after performance. And none of them ever notice, as they laugh merrily and stumble back to their ticky-tacky little houses, that they can never remember what the performance was about.


End file.
